


a proposition

by armyofbees



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, Getting Together, M/M, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, as usual, race has no idea what he's doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14351229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofbees/pseuds/armyofbees
Summary: “Stay the night. ’S gettin’ late.”“Jack’ll think I’ve turned on ’im. He’s dramatic like that.”“No, I mean… Stay.”





	a proposition

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr prompt fill for the prompt "Spot propositioned me today." "Is that even a thing people do? Proposition?" "I have no idea. Whatever the case, he did it."
> 
> you can find me at my [tumblr](https://townhulls.tumblr.com/) and leave requests/prompts/just say hey!

Race walks with a peculiarly conflicted expression on his face, his feet seemingly unable to decide between a skip and a trudge. He holds an unsold paper under one arm, hands fiddling with his hat. On again, off again, picking at a loose thread, aimless.

He’s not sure what he’s nervous about. He’s not even sure he’s going to tell Jack anything yet. He figures he should, but he mostly needs to decide what he’s going to say to Spot. Race stops walking suddenly and buries his face in his hands. _Oh my God._

His mind goes over the scene again and again, stuck on Spot’s words.

_“Stay the night,” he’d said. “’S gettin’ late.”_

_Race had shaken his head. “Jack’ll think I’ve turned on ’im. He’s dramatic like that.”_

_Spot bit his lip, looking almost… sheepish. “No, I mean…” He reached out, resting his hand on Race’s, curling his fingers gently. Race had found himself complying, turning his hand over and intertwining their fingers. “Stay,” Spot said, voice holding far more weight now._

_“I…” Race had choked. Spot tugged him a little closer, eyes searching, and Race had utterly_ choked. _“I’ll see ya tomorrow,” he said, voice small, and left, almost forgetting his last paper on the way out._

Race starts walking again, sighing heavily as he crosses the Brooklyn bridge. His mind is a jumble, and he needs help sorting it out. The Manhattan lodging house comes into view shortly and Race shoots a lazy greeting to Specs, who’s just getting back. He holds the door for Race and they head inside together.

Specs heads immediately for the game of poker brewing in the corner of the common room, and normally, Race would be right behind him, but today he flops down in a chair next to Jack. Jack’s sketching something, a section of today’s paper spread out in front of him. He doesn’t look up, so Race lets him be and pretends to read his pape.

His thoughts tumble by in crashing waves as he decides what to say. God, what a mess.

Eventually, once he’s sure nobody is listening to them, Race folds his paper and drops it on his lap, giving Jack a sharp kick. “Hey.”

Jack shoots him a glare. “Hey yourself. What was that for?”

“Needed your attention.”

There must be something in his tone that gives him away, because Jack’s expression shifts into something more serious and he nods slowly. “Sure, ya got me.”

Race’s brows furrow and he says carefully, “Spot… propositioned me today.”

Jack raises his eyebrows, not quite managing to look surprised. “’S that even a thing people do? _Proposition?”_

“I’ve got no idea,” Race says. “But it don’t matter, ’cause he did it.”

Jack nods again, appraisingly. “And you said…?”

Race gives him an odd fish-eyed look. “You ain’t surprised by this.”

“What? Whatcha mean? Don’t I look surprised?” Jack’s a shockingly bad actor, Race thinks. He wonders if he and Spot are just _that obvious._

“No.” Race scrubs a hand down his face, shaking his head. “It don’t matter. I told ’im I’d see ’im tomorrow, an’ that was that.”

Jack narrows his eyes. “So you don’t wanna sleep with ’im.”

“What?” Race feels distantly like he’s going to faint, but instead he shushes Jack and casts a furtive glance around. The other newsies are still absorbed in their poker game, but. “Shut up.”

“So you _do.”_ Jack smirks, and Race decides that what he _really_ wants is to punch him.

“I _said_ shut up!” Race crosses his arms, huffing. “Even if I did, which I’m _not saying I do,_ I was worried ’bout what you’d say, an’ I sorta ruined it now.”

Jack snorts. “So tomorrow, when you go back, you apologize and tell ’im you was scared! Talkin’ to ’im don’t seem hard for you.”

“I ain’t gonna tell ’im I’s scared!” Race pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s Spot Conlon, that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard!”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Once you jumped out a window an’ tried to use a pape as a parachute ’cause Albert dared ya to.”

“Yeah, and this is _worse_ than that!” Race insists, but he can feel himself flushing in embarrassment. It hadn’t been his finest moment.

“Then ya just apologize, okay? I gotta finish this drawin’, and you’se bein’ stupid.” Jack gives him a sympathetic look, though, and offers a smile. “I ain’t never known Spot Conlon to tolerate no one like he does you. An’ he wouldn’t… _proposition_ ya if he didn’t like ya.”

Race returns the smile and nods. “Right. Thanks, Jack.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now go play cards an’ leave me alone.” Jack waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the poker game. “The other fellas’re gettin’ cocky without you around.”

Race rolls his eyes, but he does pull up a chair and win the next three rounds.

 

* * *

 

The next morning comes with a creeping kind of dread. Race wakes when it’s still dark out, but sleep escapes him and eventually he gets up. He gets dressed and washes his face quietly, avoiding the steps that creak as he heads down to the street.

The moon is low in the sky but visible, and there’s no hint of sunrise on the horizon. Race, struck by some inspiration that only sleep-deprived fools and drunkards seem to have, sets out for Brooklyn.

He pauses a moment on the bridge, admiring the way the moon shines on the river. His resolve wavers for a moment. Maybe Spot will be annoyed, or upset, or won’t be around. That’s stupid, but it nags at him. Race twists his fingers anxiously, then rubs his hands together quickly and sets off again, determination in his step.

He reaches the Brooklyn lodging house and, instead of trying to pick the lock, decides to scale the building. He figures that if Spot ends up forgiving him, it’s a skill that’ll come in handy. The uneven bricks are easy enough footholds, and before long Race is at the third floor, where he knows Spot has a room to himself. He peeks into various windows—first an office, then a room with four empty bunks, then—

Race takes a deep breath and knocks on the window. Spot’s sleeping form doesn’t budge, so he knocks again, louder. This time, Spot sits straight up, shooting a glare at the door. Race stifles a snicker and knocks again. Spot turns, sees him, and heaves an exasperated sigh. Race offers a guilty smile.

Spot stands and Race realizes for the first time that he’s shirtless. _Haha, fuck,_ is all he has time to think before Spot opens the window and peers over the sill, looking impressed. Well, as impressed as Spot ever looks. “You climbed?”

“I climbed,” Race agrees. “Lemme in?”

Spot raises his eyebrows and steps back. Race tries his best to be graceful as he climbs through the window, but he ends up almost falling on his face, and when he looks up Spot is trying to hide his smile.

“Shut up.” Race pauses then. He hadn’t even been sure he’d make it this far. “Listen, Spot, I didn’t…” he trails off, then reaches out and takes Spot’s hands, pulling him closer. His stomach flutters, and he forgets anything he’d been planning to say. He toys with Spot’s fingers and doesn’t look at him a long moment. He takes a deep breath. “I just… I didn’t mean for ya to think I didn’t… want you.”

Spot’s hands tighten around his and his eyes are very intense as he says, “So ya do? Want… this?”

Race offers a small smile, before leaning down and pressing his lips to Spot’s. Spot tenses for a moment; then Race runs his hands up his arms and cups his face, and he relaxes into the kiss. Race pulls away for just a moment to say, “’Course,” and then he kisses him again. Spot’s arms wrap around his waist for a moment, and then there are hands on Race’s chest, pushing him backwards, towards the wall. Spot doesn’t break the kiss, so Race follows his lead, stumbling backwards and letting himself be pressed up next to the window frame.

Spot’s hands roam back to his hips and Race can’t help but grin. He leans back and just looks at Spot, running his thumbs over his cheekbones. “Sorry I was an ass.”

Spot smirks. “Long as ya keep this up, all’s forgiven.”

Race just laughs and kisses him again.


End file.
